Stephen Leather - Dead Men

‘Who?’

‘The cops. What did they tell you about Adrian and Joe?’

Kinsella’s minder was out of earshot at a table where he could keep an eye on the entrance. ‘Same as they told you, I suppose, that they were dead and that until they find out who’s responsible I should be protected.’

‘Did they tell you how they were killed?’

‘Shot.’

Lynn grinned triumphantly. ‘The lying bastards.’

‘They weren’t shot?’

‘They were shot, all right, but it’s the way they were shot that matters. They didn’t tell me, they haven’t told the media, and they’re treating you like a mushroom, too.’ He leant close to Kinsella. ‘They were shot in the knees, and in the back of the head. Does the significance of that hit home, now?’

‘Carter,’ said Kinsella.

‘Carter,’ repeated Lynn.

‘Why didn’t they tell me?’

‘They’re not saying. Scared of bad publicity, maybe. Or copycat killers. But I’ve got a source in the cops who says they were definitely shot in the head and knees.’

‘Shit,’ said Kinsella.

‘Yeah, shit,’ said Lynn. ‘If I were you, I’d lose your police minders and let the boys take care of you.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘You can’t trust the cops,’ said Lynn. ‘For all we know, it could be cops doing it.’

Kinsella shook his head. ‘Can’t do that, Gerry. It wouldn’t look good.’

The bodyguard returned with cappuccinos. He put the cups on the table and rejoined his colleague.

‘I’m going to be offered a role in the Assembly,’ said Kinsella. ‘That’s why I came back. They’ve got big things planned for me, Gerry. Big things.’

‘Because of your wife?’

‘It’s sod all to do with Elizabeth. It’s me they want. The Assembly’s the future, Gerry. It’s the way to a united Ireland.’

‘And that means turning your back on your old friends, does it?’

‘It means aligning myself with Sinn Fein rather than the IRA,’ said Kinsella.

‘Be careful who you turn your back on, Noel,’ said Lynn.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ asked Kinsella.

Lynn stood up and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Just be careful, that’s all.’ He walked out of the coffee shop, flanked by his bodyguards.

Hassan Salih settled back in the buttery leather seat of the white Rolls-Royce and looked out over the waters of the Persian Gulf.

‘There are drinks in the cabinet in front of you, sir,’ said the driver.

‘I’m fine,’ said Salih. ‘Where are you from?’

‘Bangladesh, sir,’ said the driver. ‘You are here on business or holiday?’

‘Business,’ said Salih. He stared at the back of the driver’s head. Like most of the countries in the Middle East, at least those with oil, the locals brought in overseas workers to do the jobs they felt were beneath them.

‘You have stayed at the Burj Al Arab before, sir?’

‘I’m not staying, just visiting,’ said Salih, ‘but it will be my first visit. And this is my first time in a Rolls-Royce.’

‘All the hotel’s cars are Roll-Royces,’ said the driver, ‘and every suite has its own butler.’

‘Amazing,’ said Salih.

‘The Burj Al Arab is the only seven-star hotel in the world.’

‘I heard that,’ said Salih.

‘And it is the most beautiful,’ said the driver. ‘It was designed to represent the shape of a dhow.’

The hotel was ahead of them, a thousand-feet-high steel and glass structure on an island some three hundred metres offshore. It gleamed in the harsh sunlight, and to Salih it looked more like a curved blade than a ship. The Rolls turned to the right and headed over a causeway. Uniformed flunkeys were already waiting as it glided to a halt. Salih climbed out, and explained that he had no luggage and would be attending a meeting in one of the suites. A bellboy escorted him to the reception desk and handed him over to a blonde woman with Slavic cheekbones who took him up in the lift to the fifteenth floor, where she passed him on to a Bangladeshi butler. The man knocked discreetly and stood aside to let him in.

An Arab man in his early forties was sitting on a sprawling sofa. He was wearing an expensive dark blue suit and black patent-leather shoes that glinted in the sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the sea. The man did not get to his feet, merely indicated the second sofa. ‘Please sit,’ he said, in accented English. ‘Do you want anything to drink?’ He stroked his greying moustache as he studied Salih.

‘I’m fine,’ said Salih. His own English was perfect. He had spent two years as a postgraduate student in California and was a frequent visitor to the United Kingdom. He had worked hard to lose his accent. The man dismissed the butler as Salih sat down. ‘You have my money?’ asked Salih.

‘Of course,’ said the man. A black leather attache case stood beside the sofa. Salih picked it up and clicked open the two locks. Inside he found bundles of hundred-dollar bills. American dollars. The only kind worth having. ‘I do not as a rule fly to meet a man I do not know,’ said Salih.

‘The fact that I sent you a first-class ticket and ten thousand dollars, along with a promise of the hundred thousand you have there, persuaded you, I suppose,’ said the man.

Salih took out one of the bundles and riffled through it. Then he selected a note and held it up to the light.

‘Do not worry, they are genuine,’ said the man. ‘I would not have gone to all this trouble to give you counterfeit notes.’

Salih put the note back into the bundle and closed the briefcase. ‘We agreed that the hundred thousand dollars buys you one hour of my time,’ he said. ‘I’m listening.’

‘I have need of your skills. A man and a woman. The man is American, the woman is British.’

‘And how did you hear of me?’

‘Your reputation is second to none.’

‘Really?’ said Salih. ‘The fact that you are a senior officer of the al-Shurta wouldn’t have had anything to do with you getting in touch with me?’

The man’s smile tightened a fraction.

‘You think I wouldn’t have checked you out?’ said Salih. ‘Your name is Muhammad Aslam and your office is on the fifth floor of the police headquarters building in Riyadh. You have three wives and are blessed with sixteen children.’

‘I am impressed,’ said Aslam.

‘Your youngest son was born on April the sixteenth. He weighed a little over six pounds.’ He smiled. ‘I could go on, but I’d only be showing off, wouldn’t I? I hope my point is taken. As I said, I would not have flown here to meet someone I didn’t know.’

‘If you hadn’t checked me out, you wouldn’t have been the man I want,’ said Aslam.

Salih patted the briefcase. ‘Is this personal money, or are you acting as an intermediary?’

‘So far as you are concerned, I am the client. But, of course, I am acting on behalf of a person who wishes to remain insulated from such matters.’

‘Is he a member of the Royal Family?’

‘Would that be a problem?’

‘I do not trust the royals,’ said Salih. ‘They have a habit of distancing themselves by removing those who have served them.’

‘The person I am acting for is not royal,’ said Aslam, ‘but he is a Saudi.’

‘And the targets, they are in the Kingdom?’

‘No. The woman is in England, the American moves around. Neither will be in Saudi Arabia.’

‘Are there any special requests?’

‘There are,’ said Aslam. ‘They must be killed by hand. With violence.’

‘So this is for revenge?’

‘Very much so.’

‘Up close and personal, as they say.’

‘They must die in pain,’ agreed Aslam. ‘Is that a problem?’